footnotes
by FairandFey
Summary: /Theirs is an untold story, a mere footnote amongst the epics of heroes./ An idea that's been floating around for some time. Marlene McKinnon and Regulus Black, First War era. A collection of one-shots.
1. Chapter 1

_History will not remember them._

_Time may recall names, bare shading, a locket and a photograph. But it cannot capture the essence of now, these two not-quite-adults hardened and tough and scared._

_Between them, they ended many lives. Yet, through their actions, more were spared. It was a brutal war, a dirty war and it was not fought in one battle. Theirs is an untold story, a mere footnote amongst the epics of heroes._

_History will not remember the boy and the girl who stared out over London, faces blank and hands clasped tight._

_But they were there._

Marlene thinks to herself, and not for the first time, that Regulus is too damn pretty for his own good. The Black family breeds for looks as much as blood, and the stamp is evident in his aristocratic features, the proud nose and deep, dark eyes silvered by moonlight. She doesn't look straight at him- never does, not when they're out here, perched precariously on roof ledges- but drinks in the subtle glances out of the corner of her eye as she looks out over the city. Behind them, in the cheap flat that is too big for one and too cluttered for two, the heater is kicking on in a series of clicks and rumbles. She steals another glance at his hawklike profile, the curtain-fall of his hair, and smiles.

He watches her, too.

The darkness changes her, softens edges, turns harsh lines into sweet curves. Marlene is too harsh for her own good; the war has changed them, the both of them, and while he has become ice she is fire. Volatile, passionate, consuming. Greedy for the time they spend together, he basks in the warmth even though it will leave nothing but scars. Her bright red hair, once her only vanity, is chopped short and sharp like a bird's crest; the freckles he is so fond of lend her a kind of innocence she has long since lost. Once again, the newly-proclaimed heir to the Black family wonders why it is her that has caught his attention, she the boyish goddess. He is besotted with this girl- this woman- with battle-won muscles and scars on her hands. How his brother would laugh. How _he_ would laugh, if the entire weren't so damnably tragic. Regulus tightens his grip on Marlene thoughtlessly, a wordless seeking of comfort.

He waits for the inevitable comment, but it does not come.

She knows she ought to say something, a jibe, an insult, but her sharp tongue stays silent. On any other day, at any other time, Marlene might speak. _I thought I was the girl in the relationship, then?_ She is known to quip, or perhaps _Is my dear Reggie frightened?_

But tonight, on this night, when the Prewitts are dead and Regulus' arm is burning and she doesn't know when all this madness will end, Marlene keeps her big mouth shut. Lips painted a vulgar red are tightly pressed together, and she only leans into her lover's touch.

The night is cold, but their bodies are warm where they are together.


	2. Chapter 2

Marlene makes pizza every morning.

It irritated Regulus the first time he stayed the night in her flat, after a long series of coincidental meetings in cheap bars and morning afters in cheaper hotels. He woke up alone, in a strange bed, with a hangover. _That_ wasn't new. But the scent drifting in from the doorway certainly was. It befuddled his senses more than the unfamiliar surroundings had- Reg always woke up early. Always. So why did it smell like someone was making supper?

He didn't bother pulling on pants before he stumbled into the kitchen, where a surprisingly alert Marlene was bustling about the tiny room with the speed of much practice. Her flame-red hair was still untidy from sleep, and she seemed to be wearing his shirt. It looked better on her, the man decided, as he eyed the creamy skin on her exposed thighs. He glanced up from his examination to see that Marlene had stopped, and was grinning at him in a decidedly predatory way. Reg slung himself up onto a beaten chair and waited for the onslaught.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty awakens. Wondered if it was worth tossing you out the window, but I figured it'd be too much effort. Besides, bodies on the sidewalk upset my neighbors."

How the hell was she this alert already? Reg shot her a bleary-eyed glare and propped his chin up with one hand. She spread toppings on sauce with quick, efficient movements, then popped the whole thing into a rickety oven. Reg suspected she had a few charms on it, because there was no way that muggle contraption could be sturdy enough to not explode. He continued to watch it suspiciously as he replied, his words punctuated by yawns.

"It's not easy being this handsome. I need my sleep." The male shook his head at her as she began to wash her hands clean of flour and tomato. He wrinkled his nose in aristocratic distaste.

"And it's bloody difficult to sleep in when the whole flat smells like this. Really, Mar. It's only ten yet. Why're you making lunch?" She tossed him a look over her shoulder. It was one Regulus was very familiar with indeed- that look that said _you are an idiot, I don't know why I bother._

"Because I don't eat warm pizza, you git. It's got to sit in the cooler for a good few hours; the thing's a piece of rubbish." Regulus considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly. Eating cold pizza was no more mad than some of her other habits and a great deal less harmless- even if the thought of it did make his stomach churn.

"If I knew you could cook, I would've put more effort in turning you into a proper housewife."

She threw a dishcloth at him.

Now he knows that the pizza isn't for her, not really. Somehow everyone in the Order manages to show up at her flat, and they leave with a smile and a slice. There's no set date, never any planned dinner, but the entire pizza is always gone by the end of the day. Reg stays out of the way while they are there, because those who don't know him stare suspiciously and those who do know him do worse. It's worth Apparating away for a few hours just to see the smile on her face afterwards, hear the good-natured complaints about people who might have been his friends in another place and time.

He discovers, later on, that at some point he stopped whining about the smell, stopped just ignoring it, even, and has become accustomed to it. When he wakes in his own flat, or even the somber silence of Grimmauld place, it never smells of anything but loneliness.

A/N: So, er, apparently I'm incapable of happy endings with these two. Well, it was brighter than the last one, right? =)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: About that whole angst thing? Yeah. It's back. On the plus side- coming up next chapter: a carnival! I've got quite a few more planned for this. Mar and Reg don't let go too easy. And a great big thanks to all my amazing reviewers! ^^

They fought more often, now. Not just the silly banters they'd had for the entirety of their somewhat unusual relationship- true, all out battles, fueled by rage rather than playfulness and challenge. The storm was coming, static was in the air, and both could feel the end nearing. Whoever might win, the pair of them were doomed.

There had always been a degree of secrecy to their relationship, but now they barely spoke to one another. It was all actions, all need and want and helplessness. And love, but buried deep and silent where all uncomfortable things go.

"What the hell were you _thinking_, Reg? Dodge saw you. Recognized you. We've been told how dangerous you are now, you realize that? They told us to kill you on sight. You're supposed to wear a mask for a reason, you, you-" Marlene huffed wordlessly, stunned out of even her incredible insult vocabulary. The woman had stalked towards him like an avenging goddess as soon as he'd come inside, glowering something fierce. She'd been stewing for a while, he could tell- her hair was mussed where she'd been running her hands through it, and there was a pile of misshapen knitting on the couch. Mar only tried to make things when she was truly distraught. The male backed farther into the doorframe where he'd been cornered, but even as he did so the bewildered look on his face was morphing into something like rage. Not even a minute in the flat and already he was under fire.

"What was I thinking? I was thinking that without that mask I could bloody well aim proper so I wouldn't be killing any one. That's what I was thinking, Mar. So the twit recognized me? So what? Sirius has been telling anyone who'd listen that I've gone over." Even in the midst of fury he managed to give his brother's name an extra bitterness, a twist of his lips that transformed his solemn features into merely cold. His hands were balled into fists, and he carefully did not move to grab his wand. They were both high-strung anyway, and Marlene always had been able to outshoot him. It was why he'd needed the extra room to make sure his killing curses always missed, and it was the Stunners that struck home.

"That's different, Reg, and you know it." She was advancing on him now, still dressed in muggle clothes, torn jeans and that leather jacket she loved so much. He could smell the smoke on her. "Sirius isn't exactly neutral. Elphias fucking Dodge is." And then something changed, some expression he didn't want to understand in her eyes as she looked up at him. Her mouth formed a sad, silent 'o'.

"You don't know." She whispered. Marlene raised her hands to stroke his face, feather-light. Regulus straightened out of his defensive crouch and grabbed onto her wrists like a drowning man with a life raft. Every muscle in his body was tensed, a tiger poised to strike as he stared down at her.

"What don't I know?" It was when he was like this, all quiet and still, that he was at the most dangerous. The rest of his family might have been berserkers, glorying in the fight, but Regulus knew the value of attacking from shadows.

She looked at him with a face grown old with sorrow. "There was…a fire. After."

And he could only stare hopelessly at her for a long moment, uncomprehending. It couldn't be. The family- the little girl- they'd only been stunned, he was sure of it, he'd been _careful_-

"We think it was Lestrange. Right before you lot Apparated, a spark, and you know the house was rotten wood, nearly falling down anyway. There was nothing we could do. Nothing. It spread too fast." The words spilled from her all in a nearly incomprehensible jumble, as though she could no longer hold them in. Regulus opened his mouth, and then he closed it. And collapsed.

His slid down the wood of the door gracelessly to land on the dingy carpet. His limbs and expression had gone slack, eyes dull, and the pale young man made a sound deep in his throat. It was a wordless keening, a cry of pain that transversed the boundaries of mere language. Marlene knelt down in front of him, and her brown eyes were brimming with tears for the both of them. She held him close, like a mother holds a child, and he lay unprotesting in her embrace. He buried his head in her hair and breathed in, shaky and slow, as he tried not to remember the wisp of smoke he'd dismissed as imagination. He'd known the man was unstable, dammit, he should've checked the premises…

Regulus became aware, suddenly, that someone was sobbing. He rather thought it was himself. "Marlene." He whispered, eyes shut tight. "Marlene, Marlene, Marlene." Her name was a litany, a prayer, a dirge's refrain.

There was a time for fighting, and it was now, when battle raged all around them and innocent children died in flames. But in this moment, in this place, there was only the aftermath.


End file.
